


Other Worlds

by Hopetohell



Series: End of the World [4]
Category: Mission: Impossible (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood, Blood Kink, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Bloodplay, Body Horror, Gore, Other, Smut, Torture, Violence, necrophilia-adjacent handjobs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:02:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 4,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26674084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hopetohell/pseuds/Hopetohell
Summary: Side stories and outtakes from the “End of the World” universe, more or less. A little smut and a lot of gore.
Relationships: August Walker/original character
Series: End of the World [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1856770
Comments: 8





	1. Dots and Dashes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A honeypot mission, and a little jealousy.

Taking this job was worth it, more or less. It at least satisfies some small, petty part of you to know they’re listening in, to know they can hear every one of your target’s gasps as you slide a hand up the inside of her thigh, as you darken and deepen your voice so your murmured endearments make her breathing flutter fast and high, so that when your first finger strokes between her folds she’s ready. 

Hammond must be spitting mad, and you have to hide a smile in the crook of the woman’s neck. She doesn’t need to know who you’re thinking of, and when her hands come up to rest on your biceps they’re so gentle, so light. It’s not quite enough for you but it makes you look good, doesn’t it, driving into her as hard as you dare, as hard as you think you can get away with, your hands on her to take her over the edge not once but twice before you’re biting the inside of your cheek hard and coming with a sigh. By the time you toss out the condom and get dressed, she’s passed out in the bed, so you don’t even have to pretend like you’re not rifling through the dresser for those documents. 

Hammond, of course, is in exactly the mood you’d hoped they would be. 

“Did you get it? No, don’t speak. Show me.” So you lay the folder down on the table and begin to undress, eyes fixed on them, on the way the muscle tightens in their jaw. On the way their eyes flick down your torso and back up, tracking the long pink scars on your belly. On the way they sit, leaned back, legs parted. Head back, chin down, _god_ it makes your cock jump, doesn’t it.

_Love, will you push your luck?_

Of course you do, you always do, you don’t know how not to go all in. So you smile and that’s all it takes, all it takes for Hammond to rise up and fist your hair in their hands, drag you down to the carpet and you go easy, soft and pliant, you have an idea where this is going but god you want to find out. And _oh_ how it stings, love, their nails digging into your gums when they pry your mouth open with their fingers, when they drag your face to their core. 

How it burns, this aching in your jaw as they keep your mouth forced wide, as they fuck themself down onto your tongue. How it burns, when you can’t help but reach to touch and they dig their nails in until you taste blood. It burns you clean, the blood and salt, and your head is spinning from their unrelenting grind, until they jerk and cry out, their hands falling slack. 

And they carve their name into you, love, when you pull them onto your lap and fuck them slow and thoughtful, their nails digging into the skin over your heart, Morse dots and dashes spelling out a chant of _mine, mine, mine._


	2. Meat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An alternate post-mugging scene, featuring fucking on a pile of corpses.

You would swear up and down that you didn’t mean for this to happen. With anyone else, sure, you’d swear, but this is Hammond. “Show me,” they said, taping your fingers back together. “Show me,” they said, tugging you down by the curls so they could whisper in your ear. “ _Show. me. your. work_.”

So they button you into your overcoat and draw you out into the cloudlight. You take them there, to that chilly third-floor room where a pair of muggers lie in bits and pieces. 

And _oh_ the crunching of teeth underfoot, Hammond stepping heavy like they’re crushing autumn leaves. They kick teeth across the floor, kick fingers, tread on bits of unknown bone; they read your future in the carnage you’d left. 

You reach, your fingers bound together in pairs, but Hammond grips your wrists, and though your tendons flex you hold still and steady. Wait. Watch their eyes. 

_This is a gift._ Dear, who else would have you in this way? Spread out on your coat, their hands on you, their mouth on you, hot and wet and silent save for your breath bouncing back harsh inside your ears. Don’t touch, can’t touch, can you, your bandages are too stiff. 

But you want, you want, the smell of blood rich in your nose, nearly on your tongue for how it suffuses the room. You want, and you take, surging up to cradle their face with the palms of your hands, licking into them hot and wet until they pull you both over backward. Until they fall back with a thump onto someone’s limbless torso. 

And love, the _light_ in their eyes at that. At the way you catch yourself on your hands, _fuck,_ weeks more of recovery but it’s worth it, worth it, when you sip the sighs from their lips, when you drop to your elbows to rut against their thigh, _love_ they paint you in the tacky drying blood that coats everything, _love_ they inch back til they’re bowed over the body, back curved like a creeping vine. 

And they guide you, love, hold you in their slick red hand, guide your cock against the hollow of their hip, pressing you there, grinding up into you until they drop their head back with a gasp. And you follow, love. Wherever they go you’ll follow.


	3. White Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> August, wearing white.

Look at you, all in virgin white, shining in the dark and that’s the point, isn’t it. Look at you, pristine, _god_ you can’t wait, can you? Until you can shake your fists loose and really get to work. 

Sloane doesn’t like it, wonders why there are so many white shirts on your expense account. Wonders if you’re selling them on the side. But with results like yours, darling, how can she argue? You hunt Apostles like it’s going out of style. You bring heads, hands, all identifiable but never a live target. All boxed and tagged, neat as you like. 

You know his name, his face, his plans to sell you out. And you wore white so he would know. So that when you catch him and bind him, when you set him under the single bare bulb in the center of your abattoir, he will know. He’ll know he fucked up, and you saw, and love you will never let him go. 

The last thing he’ll see is his blood on your shirt. 

Hammond’s in town on business, in the same time zone for once. They’re lounging in the corner, drinking—is that a slurpee? Where the fuck did they even get a slurpee in this backwater hellhole? They catch you looking, offer you some with a smirk. 

You tug at your cuffs, roll your shoulders. You step under the spotlight and _oh_ he’s afraid. He sees you wreathed in white and he knows. Baby Apostles tell each other stories about you, about the Hammer who takes no shit and gives no quarter. And when they see you like this, love, all dressed up just so you can see their blood and filth all over yourself, just so you can show them the color of their sins, _oh._ How you 

(hate)

love them, how you’ll save them from the sin of betrayal. Love. You’ll scorch them with your light, burn them all to cinders. Trees will grow in their scattered ashes. 

You wear white, so that when you pry his nails from their beds, he leaves bloody fingerprints on your cuffs. You wear white not because you are innocent, but because you are everything else. 

You wear white so he can see the life leaving his body. 

You wear white because you look good. 

Love.


	4. Fixing It (One Cycle At a Time)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Walker does Groundhog Day, sort of.

The next time, he takes the detonator and throws it out of the helicopter as hard as he can, once they’re far enough away from the camp. The rest plays out the same, the crash, the pain, the fight and the lonely death. But the last thing he sees is a mushroom cloud rising at the far end of the valley, and he doesn’t hurt for long because he’s burnt to ash in the space of a thought. 

He tells the pilot to go left instead of right, and they crash into the hillside. 

He gives the detonator to the pilot, says _don’t stop for anything._ He walks across the field, headed for the trees, breath billowing in the frosty air. He only stops when the bullet rips through his spine. 

He says _fuck it, forget Kashmir, let’s try somewhere tropical instead._ Lane pushes him out of the helicopter. 

He tries talking it out, down in the tunnel. Doubles down on his story, _just business, I’m on your side._ They sedate him before he can finish his sentence, and he wakes in a basement room where the fluorescent lights are always on. It takes him a long time to die after that, piece by piece. 

He waves off the fake Lark in the restroom, says something must’ve spooked him. The White Widow leaves, and with her any chance at getting to the plutonium. Sloane has him burned before the end of the week. 

He breaks his own arm in a car door to get out of the assignment. It works, but Lane’s men find him and they don’t quite believe he hasn’t betrayed them in some way. 

He sees Sloane coming down the hallway one day, folder in hand. She goes right, he makes a sharp left, and he goes out for a long lunch. When he comes back he refuses the assignment entirely and though she isn’t pleased, it’s not like there aren’t other agents who can do the job. It’s six months of shitty surveillance assignments before she forgives him, and he can get back to work. 

He meets someone while he’s out hunting, someone with sharp eyes and sharp teeth. He leaves the CIA entirely, and together they make their plans. When Lane isn’t looking they make their coup, and set their plans in motion. And _oh,_ they wreak such delectable havoc.


	5. A Little Bloodplay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a little bloodplay, figuring out how they work together.

It becomes a habit, Hammond working the scalpel while Walker palms himself through his trousers. It becomes a habit, until he’s openly stroking himself, slicking his cock with the target’s blood. Until Hammond finally lays down the scalpel and he fucks them right over the body. Blood’s a terrible lube but it’s all he uses anyway, and they don’t mind, they don’t mind, every inch of them slick and shaking. And he bites at them, marking them in every way he can, branding them inside and out with his claim of _mine, mine, mine._


	6. White Widow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one with the handjob. The hand’s owner is nowhere near.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s a perspective shift from second to third person midway through, but I’ll allow it.

You weren’t paying attention. Well, you were, just not to the right things. You watched her right hand as it reached for your curls, watched the bow of her lips quirk, just a little, as she lowered her eyelids, as you leaned down to close the gap between her breath and yours. 

You should’ve been watching her left hand, the one with the knife. 

“I know you,” she whispers, her eyes bright as she twists the knife, as she tears the wound wider. As she rocks her hand to turn a little circle of a wound into a slit. She’s so very like you; in another life, you would have gotten along so wonderfully. Her fingers are so delicate as she probes the wound, as she touches parts of you that should never be touched. She looks at her stained fingertips as you sway and try to stay upright, even as you feel the blood running warm down your side. “Goodnight, Mr. Lark,” the Widow says, and settles in to watch you bleed to death. 

And you fall. 

It’s a lot of blood. The smell hangs thick in the air and clings to your teeth. It’s unpleasant, but not unfamiliar. And you should be trying to get up, the White Widow’s cleaners will arrive any minute, but you’re just so tired. You’re not used to this, to being surprised. To being outmaneuvered. 

To being weak. 

“Do try to make it quick, Mr. Lark. I’ve got a meeting later, and I’d hate to be late.” Her voice oscillates strangely, running from one side of your mind to the other, as she picks your blood from under her nails with the tip of her butterfly knife, as you try to give your name—your real name— the one that might yet change her mind. But you’ve got no breath left to speak, and anyway with your mouth full of blood there’s no room for words. 

She turns away, mouth twisted in annoyance, to answer her phone and you get a hand down, somehow, pressing it onto and then _into_ the wound, digging in until your fingers are pressed tight against the margins of the wound, until the pressure starts to slow the bleeding. It still bleeds sluggishly, and you don’t even want to think about what you’re touching inside, but maybe it’ll be enough. Enough, at least, for you to plant the soles of your feet on the floor, to start slithering like a slug toward the exit. It hurts, and with every inch you see spots across your vision. 

The call drags on, a faint background buzz as you creep to the exit, and you’re so very close now. It sets your heart to racing, and that’s bad, it makes the blood flow faster, like you have any left to lose. Your shoulders cross the threshold, then your ribs, your hips. 

The Widow turns. But you are gone. 

They catch you, genius, just outside. You went out as the cleaners went in and if they don’t have traditional weapons, exactly, they have bone saws and chisels and buckets of something unpleasantly chemical. They drag you back into the room where the carpet is already ruined, no sense in having to change out any more than necessary. And they set to work, while the Widow watches unconcerned, just out of the way of the splatter. But she can’t resist, once they’ve got you open. She lifts little bits and pieces of you up to the light, watches the blood run down her arm to the elbow. 

“It’s too bad,” she says, faint around the death rattle roaring in your ears. “I rather liked you. But it’s just good business, isn’t it? No hard feelings.” 

The lights go out. It is so dark, and for a very little while there is a terrible pain. And then there is nothing. 

Or maybe it’s like this. Maybe you manage to claw the door open and fall out into the storm, rain roaring down all around you. It washes your trail clean and though you can’t go far, it’s far enough. Miracle of miracles, a cab stops, the driver taking pity even though they shouldn’t. 

They don’t complain about the blood, or the pitiful grunts as you reseat your hand in the wound, as you try to turn where you lie across the back seat. 

“Took you long enough. I was starting to think you weren’t coming.” It’s barely a whisper; you’re clinging to consciousness by your fingernails. But they hear, and look up at you in the rear view mirror, their eyes glinting sharp as you pass under streetlights. 

“And miss a chance to see you bloody? Love, I thought you knew me.”

_Hm, I’ll pick up something on the way home. What were you thinking?_ They’re smiling fondly as they reach into the Widow’s ribcage, tearing through a rib with their bolt cutters. It still draws a scream from her, but weaker than the one before that, and the one before that. Such a delicate creature. 

_Yeah, that bakery near the square? With the little candied violets you like? Sure._ The rib goes clattering across the floor, lost to shadow. 

_Looks like we’re out of time for today. I’ll see you in the morning._ They pick up a blanket, drape it over the shivering lump on the table. They reconnect the saline and nutrient drips and the blood bags. They leave, whistling just a little, and they turn the lights out as they go.

And when they get home, Walker is reclined on the sofa, idly fingering the edges of his bandages, a faraway expression on his face. 

_Oh thank fuck,_ he says, and reaches for them.

And Hammond sets the package down on the table, takes out a petit four to slip between Walker’s lips as he parts them obediently, laving their fingers with his tongue, moaning around the faint traces of blood on their skin. 

That little moan becomes a gasp, when they press over his bandages, when they smile sharply and let just the smallest hint of cruelty spill over. 

It’s a torment of its own, this dance, this waiting for Walker to be well enough to take apart. And he craves it, god, those clever hands on him and in him, so he lays his hand over theirs, pressing down, even as his hips are tilting up, even as his head falls back and his breath catches in his throat.

They whisper to him as they’re peeling the bandages away, as they stroke the puckered margins of a wound with a back-room stitch job, still just a little raw. “You were careless,” they whisper, voice so low it creeps like fog up his skin. “You were careless and it cost you. Nearly cost all of you, and now—“

Their hands withdraw and he’s whining, actually whining, but they’re taking out a neat little butcher-paper package, opening it to show him the contents. It’s a slender hand, pale, delicate, still festooned with very expensive rings. They hold it up, the fingers starting to stiffen but still malleable. They press the first two fingers to his lips and murmur _“suck.“_

They take the hand, wet with Walker’s spit and with its own sluggishly leaking blood, and close the fingers around his cock. It’s a little tight and a lot clumsy, but he’s bucking into it all the same, just the thought of it enough to have him nearly over the edge. 

The Widow’s hand moves on him, both of Hammond’s occupied with keeping it on him, keeping the fingers curled just so. It’s not quite slick enough, gripped hard enough to bruise, but goddamn if he isn’t chasing it like he’ll die if he doesn’t get more. 

And Hammond watches, eyes narrowed in concentration but their pupils wide and dark, all their terrifying focus on this, on him, on shepherding him toward completion. 

And all of a sudden it’s too much; he shakes apart with a moan and a garbled set of syllables that could be a name. Hammond gently pries the hand away, looking critically at the semen smeared over the fingers. They lift the hand a little and their smile is sharp and dangerous. “Better get it clean.“


	7. A Betrayal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They are nothing if not vindictive.

Understand, oh my dearest, oh my darling, that when you ask him for one of his many gifts he will give it to you; he will pluck it from the folds of his still-beating heart and he will perhaps even smile a little, but it will not be with kindness. 

Therefore, choose carefully. Ask him for a single kiss, darling, and he will deliver. Where and how will depend upon his mood; perhaps a chaste brush of lips over your knuckles, perhaps a kiss that will leave you breathless with the stroke of his tongue against yours. Perhaps, even, he will throw you to the floor and eat into the very core of you, until you scream and beg for mercy. But his mouth on you _is_ a mercy, dearest. Think of the cruelty he’s capable of; think of how wretched he could leave you were his arms not wrapped around your thighs, were his fingers not leaving little dotted patterns in your flesh. 

Think of how he’d cut you open, if you were foolish enough to ask him to tear you apart. Think of how utterly he could ruin you, think of the bodies he’s left in his wake through all these long years. How many of them asked for his gift as well; who were marked as traitors and who was merely unlucky?

Who sold him out?

_Someone_ must have done it; someone must’ve seen a thread, a mote of dust, something that would mark him. Something they could use. And oh darling, oh dear, oh _dear,_ think of how angry he must have been when he realized. When he understood the scope of what had happened, when he found your mark on the secret papers in the secret place, signatures and attestations that said _here he is, claim him, break him, make him yours but give me everything in return._

And you thought you were so very clever. 

But clever is not the same as smart, my dear. And now, with your belly open to the sky and your insides become your outsides, he will deliver that kiss you asked for. He will press it chastely to your cheek: a brother’s kiss, the most innocent thing he’s ever done to you and he does it with his hand reaching up under your ribcage, with his fingers stroking across the sac that separates your heart from the rest of you. 

You asked him for a single kiss. Darling.

Death is coming. Death is coming. Death is coming. With a rattling beat it comes, with a croak and gasp it chases at your heels. Someone new comes to lay hands on you now, someone sharptoothed and smiling, but the smile stops at their lips and you are afraid. Afraid of the way their cruelties multiply together, afraid of the way they intertwine their fingers with his around the handle of the knife. He calls them _Hammond_ and you hear it, that slightest softening, that might as well be shouted from the rooftops. And they hear it, this rounding and opening of his words, just for them but they neither of them mind if you hear it too. Your ears won’t leave this room. 

Their kiss is sharp; they bite you bloody and share your taste with him, paint his lips shocking red with your blood and then lick him clean. And he bows to them, opens his stance and his mouth and his heart and plants a hand right in the center of you to perfect the angle, to give something of himself that you never saw, never could see because you didn’t know how to look. Didn’t know there was anything to look for, beyond the bulk and the savage competence of him. Didn’t want to know, not after the unmarked envelope and the unmarked bills and the blank eyes of the stranger who took your statement. 

“You thought I wouldn’t find out.” His voice is so soft, right in your ear, his breath still coppery across your face and oh darling, how he seethes. How he restrains himself while Hammond prepares the saline and the glucose and the blood, all things to keep you as alive as possible until the last moment. Darling, you will swell with it, your open belly cauterized and burgeoning with filth that has nowhere to go. They will press their hands into what remains of your flesh, just to see their handprints in your bloat, all these fluids pressing your skin tighter and tighter. 

“One hour,” Hammond says, and sighs a little. “We always seem to be in a rush, love, don’t we?” They nudge him a little with their hip and he moves smoothly, unconsciously opening their path, making room for their hands around your liver as he’s poking again at the pericardial sac, as he’s making you dizzy with the interruptions to your heart’s rhythm. 

“Love,” they say, their words twisting in and out of your awareness, “we have so little time. Love, will you strike the last blow, or shall I?” They are relaxed, indulgent even, loose with the softness of a moment that might as well be private. Darling, you are as important as the dust motes floating in the air, which is to say not at all. 

He answers, rubbing his fingers together, looking at the scars and knurls, with a smile like sharks’ teeth in syrup. He closes their fingers around the handle of the knife, lays his hand over theirs, and says, “together.”


	8. Pins and Needles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes they’re nearly tender with one another.

They fix you in place, dearest, held immobile first by a look, then a touch, then by the pins they drive through your flesh into the wooden chair, and none of it could hold you except that you want it to. Dear, you are a work of art, a study in pain and shining silver and little threads of blood. 

Threads. Connections. Little thoughts and touches that bind you. They take the thread and pull it through your blood to dye it red. They wind it from pin to pin, making of you a dream catcher, a gift, a sacrifice to the steady slide of their hand. 

And darling, you _love_ it. 

It hurts so terribly and you thought you’d shrink from it after what happened, after the lights wormed themselves into your mind so deeply. But you don’t. They are sure and steady and they speak so softly, so soothingly, that you can’t help but fall into their rhythm. Can’t help but track along the silver line of their voice, to let it pierce your heart and carve a little pinprick hole where they can live. 

_Your mind is wandering, love._ They’ll flick a fingernail against one of the pins, just like that. And it brings you back to them, sends your thoughts shuddering home; they strike the pin like they’re dowsing for water but it’s your blood, your seed, the fluid of your spine and the gentle twitch of your fingers that they seek. 

_Love. Let me inside the bitter core of you. It hurts, shh, I know it hurts. Do you trust me? Love, I’ll make it good for you._

And so they do. Oh love, how they balance you on that razor’s edge, how they manipulate the pins so that they send agony firing down your nerves to your brain and back. But they catch the signal halfway, love, they stroke at you and make you groan; they wiggle the pins in your hands to make you whine. 

And love, when they ride you it’s steady and slow; they wind their fingers through your hair and complete the circuit; they demand your attention and they have it. 

_Let go, fly to pieces, we are bound by all these fluids that drip from us to mark what we could be. Love, let us be great._


End file.
